


Greater Purpose

by ancalime8301



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Captivity, Childbirth, Community: shkinkmeme, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mpreg, Rape, Torture, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-12
Updated: 2011-11-20
Packaged: 2017-10-26 02:21:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/277571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancalime8301/pseuds/ancalime8301
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blackwood discovers a way to use Holmes' uniqueness to his own advantage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [shkinkmeme](http://shkinkmeme.livejournal.com/) [prompt](http://shkinkmeme.livejournal.com/9194.html?thread=20229098#t20229098): _Set in a Blackwood wins senario, Blackwood forces Holmes to carry his child._  
>  I should note that, while I do research, anything in my fics should be taken with a grain of salt as I often tweak things for plot purposes.

Lord Henry Blackwood was not a cruel man. When his men managed at last to capture Sherlock Holmes alive and mostly unharmed, he had to carefully consider what he wanted to do with him. That his main adversary should be used as an example to discourage opposition was perfectly clear, but the method remained murky.

When it was discovered that Holmes had certain . . . unusual physical characteristics, Blackwood had his doctors thoroughly examine him to determine the extent of the deformity. Perhaps it could be useful, though the thought of a man having the genital features of both sexes was quite distasteful. And to have been nearly defeated by a part- _woman_ was utterly disgraceful.

He stood unseen in the shadows during one interview as a doctor attempted to find out how much Holmes knew about his own condition. Holmes did not answer or tried to change the subject every time he was asked about it, obviously uncomfortable with this aspect of his anatomy.

The doctors determined that the aberrance appeared to be internal as well, possibly even to the point of the capability of bearing children. They were not certain he could successfully birth a child and suspected he might perish in the attempt, but the physical structures seemed to be present. It was disgusting, the mere thought of a man bearing a child, and yet . . .

This abnormality could provide the perfect opportunity to deal with Holmes.

And it could begin with the very ceremony that had led to Blackwood's own conception.

  
Sherlock Holmes had to admit he had been unprepared for what greeted him when captured by Blackwood: nothing.

Aside from the injuries he'd acquired in the struggle to escape the clutches of the thugs that abducted him, he was unharmed. He was kept in a solitary cell in a neglected corner of Pentonville Prison, with a bit of food and water brought twice daily. Other than the silent jailers (one was deaf in his right ear, the other was a mute), the only people he had seen were doctors who were impolitely interested in the state of his being beneath his clothing.

On one occasion the doctors deemed it necessary to invade his cell and impose upon his person. He broke one's nose and blackened the other's eye. The next attempt was preceded by drugged food--which, of course, he had not eaten--and an encounter much like the first. The third time they finally caught on and had his jailers restrain him while they injected him with something to keep him cooperative. He was naked when he woke again, but fortunately his clothing was still at hand.

He had been in captivity for five days when his jailers handcuffed him and led him along the empty corridor, a dark hood over his head so he could not see where he was being led. Holmes tried to resist and earned a blow to the head for his trouble. He was unhooded as he was brought out to the yard of the prison, a small knot of unsavory characters awaiting his arrival. They scattered into a circle around him as his guards unlocked the handcuffs and stepped away, and Blackwood himself strode forward from their midst.

"I thought it was time to demonstrate that you have not been forgotten," Blackwood said haughtily, brushing past him and knocking against his shoulder. "You may attempt to defend yourself. This is the last occasion in which you will have that opportunity."

Adrenaline surged through his veins even as part of his brain processed the implication of Blackwood's statement. Then the first punches were thrown and his attention was wholly focused on staying awake and alive for as long as possible.

  
Doctor Watson was startled out of a doze by his cell door clanging open. Before he could even think about moving, a pair of the goons Blackwood kept as guards deposited an unmoving body on the opposite bunk and hastily departed, tossing a bag inside the door before it shut again. "You will keep him well, if you value his life or yours," Blackwood's voice decreed.

Watson sat up then, and glared at the robed figure in the corridor. "Which means what, exactly?"

"I have generously provided a few supplies you may find necessary to see to his wounds. There is nothing either of you can use as a weapon, of course, but it should help. You, Doctor, will either ensure his health and wellbeing, or I will remove him from your presence and see that you are on hand to witness his humiliation. What happens after will depend upon how long it takes to break the mind of the great Sherlock Holmes." He smirked, then swept away.

Watson dared not believe it until he was bending over the still figure and breathlessly drinking in the sight of those familiar features. "Holmes," he murmured, touching a reddened cheek, then feeling for his pulse, which was steady and strong enough that Watson could be confident Holmes wasn't about to expire.

Watson turned his attention to the bag Blackwood had left behind, opening it and examining the contents in the light cast by the torch outside the door. Bandages and linen strips, a few small bottles of antiseptic, a couple jars of various salves, some powdered medications in packets, and, mysteriously, a stethoscope was the extent of the supplies, but it was more than enough to be welcome.

He wondered about the stethoscope--it could, in theory, be used for strangulation--even as he returned to Holmes' side and used it to listen to Holmes' heart rate and respiration after setting the bag down on the floor beside his feet. He was satisfied with what he heard, and exchanged the stethoscope for a jar of arnica salve that he slipped into his trouser pocket. He felt along Holmes' back and his exposed side for any breaks or bumps; finding none, he eased Holmes onto his back and felt along his other side.

Moving on to run his fingers over Holmes' scalp, he found a lump near the left temple that would explain Holmes' continued unconsciousness. He pried open both of Holmes' eyelids, though there wasn't sufficient light to properly gauge anything, then assessed the fine bones of his face. Perhaps a fractured cheekbone, but that, the lump, and abrasions on his face and hands were all he suffered. Well, and what would no doubt be numerous bruises elsewhere on his body, but those were not yet be visible.

Watson daubed the arnica on the abrasions, maintaining the monologue of his actions that he'd kept up during his evaluation of Holmes' injuries, and watched for any sign that Holmes might be waking. Holmes could feign sleep well enough to fool almost anyone--a useful skill, when one was in captivity and might be able to overhear something of use--but Watson had discovered there were one or two tells that indicated Holmes was actually awake.

That slight twitching of the eyes was one of them. "Holmes, I know you're awake," Watson said, dropping Holmes' hand onto the bed rather ungently and screwing the lid back on the jar of salve.

Holmes' lips quirked into something like a smile as he opened his eyes. "Watson," he said hoarsely, then cleared his throat before continuing, "I hope our host hasn't treated you too poorly."

Watson chuckled as he bent to replace everything in the bag. "Oh, no, of course not. They have been quite courteous, save during the interrogations. Coward was convinced I knew where you were, and somehow thought it could be beaten out of me."

Holmes' gaze searched his face. "We'll have matching eyes, once mine finishes swelling," he commented wryly, levering himself up until he was sitting on the edge of the bunk. "It is regrettable that you had nothing of use to tell them."

"Yes, quite," Watson agreed, and sat on the bunk next to him. "The only hiding place I knew was the one already known to the police."

"And a hiding place no more; the building burned to the ground three weeks ago." Holmes examined his hands as he spoke.

Watson's throat was dry, but he had to ask. "And Mary?" he murmured.

"Fled to the Continent. Brother Mycroft arranged a journey in the guise of an educational trip for her charge, his parents, her, and her parents. They escaped two days before the ports were closed to travellers."

Watson released the breath he had been holding, his relief beyond description. "Thank you. What has become of your brother?"

Holmes scoffed as he carefully stood and took a few cautious steps. "He remains, as ever, faithful to his post in Whitehall, convinced he can wreak havoc from within the government and evade detection. So far he is correct," he admitted grudgingly. "He misled Coward's forces on several occasions, passing them intelligence about my whereabouts only when he knew I had fled those locations, or subtly changing the information so as to lead them astray." Left unspoken was the insinuation that the police forces had always been easily led astray.

Watson preferred to remain on topic. "Then why are you here?"

"We had agreed he could not delay or misconstrue every piece of information concerning my whereabouts, or he would be easily discovered once someone became aware of the ruse. Evidently the address of my last bolt-hole was one piece he did not delay . . . and even I must sleep sometimes."

Holmes paced as he said this, and Watson watched him for a lack of anything else to do. "Now what? Do you have any idea what Blackwood intends for you?"

"Not a clue," Holmes confessed. "But it is likely to be unpleasant."

  
Holmes and Watson were left to wait and wonder for ten days, the only disruption of their solitude the twice-daily deposit of food and water (accompanied once a day by an exchange of the pail provided for their other needs). The first day passed pleasantly enough as they exchanged tales of what had passed in the weeks since they were separated.

After three days, Holmes was bored to the point of restlessness, and endlessly paced the cell while Watson watched from his bunk and unsuccessfully attempted to draw him into conversation. After the pacing came several days of near motionlessness on his bunk, staring either at the ceiling or the wall. Watson periodically goaded him into eating and drinking but otherwise let him be.

On the morning of the tenth day, instead of breakfast, Blackwood appeared along with a handful of his men. The men stormed the cell and took hold of Holmes, quickly restraining him and carrying him off, slamming the cell door behind them. Blackwood lingered for a moment, smirking. "I fear I must deprive you of your companion for a time, Doctor. He shall be returned after he has served his purpose."

Watson was left to ponder that purpose and what Holmes' condition would be when he returned.


	2. Chapter 2

Holmes was bundled into a bare, windowless room with a tub in the center. Three of his guards left, one staying to stand in front of the door, which was locked from the outside. In the flickering of the torches on the walls, he could see the tub was steaming, then a tall, robed woman stepped out of the shadows. "Welcome, honored guest," she said.

The robe over her widow's dress identified her as a member of Blackwood's Order, and he warily kept his distance as she approached him. "I am not a guest when I am held against my will."

She smiled, an expression that might have been pleasant in any other circumstance. "True enough. But a time will come when you are given the opportunity to leave and you will choose to stay."

"I very much doubt that."

She tilted her head, still smiling. "We shall see. For now, surely you would like a bath? I can see it has been some time since you have had the opportunity." Her hair shone silver in the torchlight and was neatly tucked into a knot.

His measuring gaze moved from her to the water. Thinking of the drowning death of Blackwood's father, Sir Thomas, he took a slight step backward.

The aged woman--possibly a nurse, but definitely associated with a medical-type profession in some capacity--laughed heartily. "Do not worry, Mr. Holmes, it is quite safe." She rolled up the sleeve of her dress and immersed her forearm, looking at him. "Henry does not wish to bring your life to an end, I assure you. I have known him since I assisted in his birth, and he confides in me. Now come, the water grows cold."

He weighed his options, then slowly unbuttoned and removed his jacket, waistcoat, and shirt, his back to the guard at the door and his eyes upon the woman--the nurse. He pulled off his shoes and socks, then hesitated, his hands on his belt as he threw an uncertain glance over his shoulder.

She tittered. "Shy, are we? Very well, just a moment." She removed her robe and stood between him and the guard, holding up the robe and averting her eyes. She didn't move until Holmes had settled himself in the water.

Even as he was enjoying the feel of warm water on his grimy skin, she was pouring a pitcher of water over his head and soaping up his hair with soothing, massaging fingers. Though his mind rebelled against being touched by one so close to Blackwood and being treated like a child, the pleasure of her expert touch overrode any objections and he submitted willingly. It wasn't the first time his enjoyment of physical pleasure had led him to make unwise choices--Irene was proof enough of that--but he reasoned that this woman was bound by her loyalty to Blackwood, so there was no harm in having his scalp massaged. Or his neck. Or his shoulders.

Then her hand cupped his chin and tilted his head back; the other hand painted soap lather over the lower portion of his face. He shied away when she produced a razor, and she chuckled indulgently. "Just relax, dear. I'll have you sorted before you know it."

She was very good, he had to admit it, wielding the razor like a practised barber. She finished quickly and then was rinsing the soap from his hair and scrubbing his back instead. As she worked, she murmured under her breath, and he stiffened, suspicious. "It's just part of the ritual," she assured him, urging him to lean forward a bit more.

"Ritual?"

"To prepare you for what is to come."

"And that is?"

"Pleasure," she said simply. "You shall see."

She let him finish washing himself, then led him from the tub and insisted upon drying him as he stood awkwardly trying to cover himself. "One would think you had never been to the Turkish baths," she teased, then stood before him and eyed him appraisingly. She ran a finger down his cheek and nodded to herself. "Yes, you'll do nicely. It's a shame we couldn't wait until your eye finished healing, but you're fairly attractive even so."

Holmes fidgeted, but remained rooted in place. Something about this woman warned him not to try anything or he would be sorry. She handed him her robe, saying, "Wear this for now; you will be given different clothes soon."

The guard exchanged a series of knocks with someone outside, then the door opened, and she led Holmes--tailed by the guard--to another, similar room, this time with a cushioned bench instead of a tub. Just as before they were locked in, and a different, younger woman stepped forward to urge him to lie down. A series of lotions and oils were applied and massaged into every inch of his skin. This woman did not speak, directing him to move with light touches rather than words.

It was easy to relax under the delicate hands skillfully kneading every bit of tension from his frame, and he very nearly dozed. Then she had him turn over; it was not so easy to relax when she was working her way down his front, and instead he felt himself begin to react to the caresses. He flushed, and the nurse appeared by his head. "It is a natural reaction, do not fight it," she said, her soft hand stroking his forehead.

His self-consciousness made this difficult, but he could see the logic. He shifted his thoughts to speculation on the nature of the ritual he would be forced to undergo; there was minimal available data, so he had to abandon this endeavor.

Holmes was brought back to his surroundings when the nurse spoke his name and directed him to rise. The other woman had somehow left without him noticing. He felt more than a little wobbly as he stood beside the bench and wondered what had been in those lotions. She handed him a pair of silk trousers, then waited while he shakily put them on and tied the drawstring. Then came a velvet robe much like the one she again wore; when she began to lead him from the room, he was very nearly overcome by the sensations of the fine fabrics against his sensitised skin.

The next room was also small but luxuriously furnished with a velvet chaise lounge, several overstuffed armchairs, a thick rug, and a pair of small, dark wood tables, one heavy-laden with plates of small cakes and other bite-sized foods, the other bearing a pitcher and glasses. The pitcher's sides were beaded with condensation, for the room was warm despite the absence of a fireplace or stove.

"It will be a little while before you are called for. Eat if you are hungry, drink if you are thirsty, or just rest."

Holmes chose rest, as he still felt quite shaky, and he sank onto the chaise. Leaning back, he blinked up at the ceiling and idly wondered why his brain refused to process anything but the fabrics against his skin, the warmth of the room, the slow throb of his half-erect cock. He palmed it through his trousers, the silk sliding deliciously over him.

His hand was halted by a soft touch. "Allow me." She drew the trousers down and cradled him, squeezing and pulling, then fondling his sac. When he was nearly fully erect, her hand shifted so the heel of her hand stimulated his sac while her fingers explored the opening behind it. They slipped in easily, the passage slick with arousal, and Holmes clutched the chaise as she simultaneously fingered and stroked him.

Then she was pulling his trousers back up and he whimpered in protest. "The rest will come soon," she promised, patting his stomach and rising. She poured a wine-red liquid from the pitcher into a glass and offered it to him. He did not take it, and merely stared at her uncomprehendingly. She sipped from the glass and then held it out toward him again. "It is a cordial. You will feel better for it."

He accepted it dazedly and drank without really being aware of doing so. It felt like something washed over him, leaving his senses as keen as under cocaine, focused on touch and feel and taste, and it was nearly too much. Then his glass was full again and he drank eagerly.

He was pulled to his feet and he nearly fainted from the influx of so many sensations at once.

His perceptions after that were blurred, every touch burning like fire on his skin, words and faces passing him by as if in a deep fog. He remembered a large room, people, a bed, and being stripped of his clothing and led to the bed.

Blackwood. He stood beside the bed and spoke, and everyone listened. The words did not mean anything to Holmes at the time, and he did not remember them afterward.

Then he was being touched and stroked and breached and filled, and all he wanted was more.

He was brought to climax and felt a warm rush inside him, and he was satisfied.

More hands upon him, caressing him, drawing symbols across his chest and belly. When those touches were finished, he was gently stroked back to arousal and was again breached and filled.

This time after the warm rush came a different solid weight, filling him even as he felt the other person draw away. His awareness faded away as well.


	3. Chapter 3

Holmes was lying on the chaise when he woke. He was alone, confused, and rather hungry. He was also naked, except for the symbols and lines that had been painted upon him with wax and semen. It itched terribly.

He slowly sat up and picked up the first morsel of food within reach--a pretty little teacake--and consumed it in one gulp. Another half dozen followed before the sharp edge of his hunger was eased and he could apply his mind more methodically to his situation.

His head pounded as if he'd been drunk, though he knew the only thing he'd had was that strange cordial. That pitcher was now gone, replaced with water. He rose and swiftly gulped two tumblers down, his stomach churning uneasily under the sudden onslaught of food and drink, but his mind cleared just a bit more.

His groin ached; he vaguely remembered being stroked off and penetrated twice, but it was more than that. He reached down and found there was an object nestled firmly within him.

The door opened abruptly and he whirled around to see the nurse-woman from before marching in, a basin of water in hand and towels draped over her arm. "Ah, good, you're awake. Sit. How do you feel?"

Holmes could only shrug and shift uncomfortably as sitting moved the object in him.

"Lie back and I'll take that out," she directed firmly. He complied, bending his knees as directed and trying not to squirm at being touched there by a strange woman. It pulled a bit as it was withdrawn, then there was a warm trickle, which she efficiently mopped up with a small towel.

As he sat up again, he asked cautiously, "What was the purpose of that . . . thing?"

She glanced at him as she wetted another towel. "It keeps the semen where it's most useful, increasing the chance of conception."

"I beg your pardon?"

She had reached toward him with the wet towel, but stopped and gave him a strange look. "You did not realise? The ritual was one for fertility. It has been used successfully on numerous occasions for procreation within the Order. Henry was born as the result of one such occasion."

Holmes' mind raced with the implications of having been on the receiving end of a fertility ritual. "And it is thought that I could . . ." he could not bring himself to say it.

"Bear a child? Yes, it is possible. You seem to have the capability despite your male appearance. You really are a most unique individual, Mr. Holmes."

The unease in his stomach doubled and he swallowed with difficulty. "How do you know this?" he demanded, hysteria creeping into his voice despite his effort to hide it.

"I am a midwife, dear. Should you conceive, I will be assisting you through your pregnancy."

He must have paled visibly, for she quickly retrieved a pail from somewhere and thrust it at him just in time for the teacakes to reappear.

She said nothing about it afterward, merely handed him a glass of water and began scrubbing the markings from his torso. He said nothing either, his mind still spinning with what Blackwood intended for him. Part of him cried out that it was impossible; at the very least, he did not bleed like a woman did.

But then his memory reminded him that there was a time when he did, before the cocaine and the vigorous exercise and the irregular meals. And women older than he had given birth. That he was a man did, of course, complicate matters. Yet there was nothing conclusive to say it was impossible, merely improbable.

That was not a comforting thought.

  
Holmes was returned to the cell by the same quartet that had fetched him from it. He had been blindfolded and turned about to disorient him before leaving the chaise-room; he was fairly certain that they also took a different route back than they had taken to arrive. When he was pushed into the cell--Watson had to steady him when he stumbled--all he could say for sure was that the three small rooms he'd seen were on the same corridor and, by the absence of windows, were likely in the interior of the building.

It was not much to go on. And he still could not be certain where their cell was located on the periphery of the building, the tiny barred window too high to allow for peering out, even from atop Watson's shoulders (they'd tried). How regrettable that he had considered the layout of prisons not worthy of study.

"Holmes?" Watson asked, his voice raised as if he were repeating the query.

"I am fine," Holmes said abruptly, brushing Watson's hand from his shoulder and turning away. He cast the robe he had been given in place of his jacket--it was the robe he'd worn for the 'ritual'--on his bunk and impatiently pushed up his shirt sleeves. Both trousers and shirt were too large for him, far too long in the sleeve and legs and allowing for the girth of a man twice his size; he felt like a child playing dress-up in Mycroft's clothes and suspected this farce was intended to mock him. As if the humiliation of his whole predicament weren't enough.

"What happened? You were gone nearly a day."

Holmes began pacing the cell, his head down, studiously not looking at Watson. "It is unclear. I was drugged." It wasn't wholly a lie.

"Are you certain you're all right? That you don't need a doctor?" Watson persisted.

"I am unharmed."

"If you don't remember what happened and you aren't hurt, what has you so bothered? You even got to bathe and shave!"

"We are captives of Blackwood, holed away somewhere in Pentonville and subject to his whims while he and his deluded band attempt to take over the world. Perhaps the better question is why you aren't bothered."

Watson held up his hands in mock surrender. "All right, all right, I'll leave you to your snit."

"It's not a snit," Holmes huffed, dragging one hand through his hair.

"Right," Watson said, crossing his arms over his chest and settling back on his bunk to watch Holmes pace.

It was just starting to look like there would be blessed silence when Watson spoke again. "So what about Moriarty?"

"What about him?"

"You said Blackwood is trying to take over the world. Is Moriarty going along with that? He doesn't strike me as the joining type."

"Fortunately, he is not, or Blackwood would be much further along just now." Finally, a topic that didn't have to do with him. "Truthfully, I may have aided one or two of his schemes before my untimely capture."

"The enemy of my enemy is my friend."

Holmes stopped and gazed curiously at him. "Indeed. And now it seems our hopes may rest on Moriarty. And Mycroft."

Watson said nothing more, and Holmes returned to his earlier ruminations.

  
Holmes had a week to think things over before he was again retrieved from the cell. This time, the midwife accompanied the four guards; somehow, her presence prompted him to say, "I'll come quietly if you will promise Watson here can have a bath and a shave."

He met her even gaze, her grey eyes calculating. He added, "His mustache is growing ragged and it bothers me."

This made her quirk a smile and she nodded. "I will see to it, Mr. Holmes. Now come."

Watson watched the exchange, gaping. "Holmes, what- who-" he spluttered, but Holmes waved it away.

"Later, Watson," he said as he obediently stepped through the open door.

Hooded and guided on all sides, Holmes was led to the chaise-room. The sounds of their footsteps provided a few tidbits of information, as did the presence of some stairs and ramps, but he still had very little idea of the prison's configuration.

The midwife began chanting even before the hood was removed; Holmes heard the guards leave as soon as she began, and found himself alone with her when he could see. He opened his mouth to speak, but could manage no words. She shook her head and touched her fingers to his lips, signalling that he should not talk even as she continued her incantation.

She took him by the hand and led him to the chaise. Holmes noted distractedly that the plates of food were gone, though a pitcher and flask of some kind remained. She gently guided him to lie back and close his eyes; he obeyed without resistance even while a part of his mind cried out in futile dismay. It was curious, how he wanted, desired, to obey her every command despite the folly of doing so. Or was it truly folly to cooperate when there was no ready alternative?

His body felt heavy and, when he tried to move, he could feel his muscles quiver but fail to budge. Then the door opened and another voice joined the midwife's. "Is he ready, Mother?"

"He is. He cannot move or speak, but he is aware and will feel everything. And I thought I would leave the undressing to you this time."

"You are too kind." It was Blackwood, and he sounded . . . pleased.

"You need to have more faith in the ritual, Henry."

"I do have faith, Mother. This is about power."

"Hmm." She didn't sound convinced. "Call if you need anything." Her footsteps retreated, and the door opened and closed again.

There was a weight on the edge of the chaise that made him shift in that direction. "Hello, Holmes," Blackwood said smoothly, running his fingers over Holmes' stubbled cheek. "I thought you and I should have some time alone, particularly since you will be providing my heir."

Holmes opened his eyes at that, though he could not form the expression he might have wished. But it was enough, for Blackwood laughed. "I see horror in your eyes. Good. I have found the purpose you are meant to serve, and I will see that it is fulfilled.

"You are the ideal carrier for my child: something more than a woman, so you are not subject to the emotional fits common to the females of our race. Your above-average intelligence and my power will combine to create the ideal child to carry on my name and reign."

He carried on in this fashion for some time while Holmes fumed inwardly at the insults being casually tossed his direction. 'Above-average intelligence', indeed!

"Your pregnancy will prove to all who knew you that you are not what they believed you to be. The man they hoped to be their salvation from my tyranny will be a parent to the heir of the regime. And all will shun you for the freak of nature you are."

Blackwood's hands were on his clothes, unfastening and removing them, until he lay bare and exposed. Blackwood ran his hands possessively over Holmes' torso, then he discarded his own trousers and knelt between Holmes' legs.

Holmes wished he could disconnect his mind and memory for what happened afterward.

Blackwood was eager, so the violation did not last long, but Holmes could feel every thrust, could feel Blackwood spending inside him, could imagine the seed seeping deep within, and he felt dirty. When Blackwood stood, modestly covering himself with the shirt he never took off, Holmes thought it was over.

He was wrong.

Evidently it was not enough for Blackwood to assault his female parts, he also had to assault him in the usual manner that occurred between two men. The flask Holmes saw earlier contained oil, which Blackwood applied liberally; it was a small mercy, and one that would allow him to keep all this from Watson.

It was awkward and painful and slow; Holmes spent part of the time idly wondering why anyone would do this willingly, particularly when a prison sentence could be the result. Then he wondered if Blackwood had dispensed with that part of British law, or if his Order agreed with it in principle. Teaching one's enemies a lesson could obviously be an exception.

This mental meandering carried him through until he was left sprawled on the chaise while Blackwood cleaned himself up. He wasn't sorry to see Blackwood leave, even when the midwife returned. She tutted and arranged him into a more natural position. "Henry isn't always careful with his things," she said indulgently as she wetted a cloth and wiped up the mess left on Holmes' body.

He found that if he really concentrated, he could make his fingers twitch. So he did this as she redressed him and murmured over him. When she stepped back, he could sit up by himself and move his limbs again.

Holmes was convinced she had somehow drugged him and it had worn off, for there was no way any incantation could have such power over him.

He was still trying to reason out how that could work hours after he was taken back to Watson and their cell.


	4. Chapter 4

Being fetched for Blackwood's pleasure became a regular occurrence, roughly weekly but it varied according to Blackwood's other pursuits (according to the midwife, Marjorie, who talked about him like a proud grandmother). Holmes and Watson were allowed baths every fortnight--and Watson was provided a pair of small scissors for the maintenance of his mustache--but otherwise they were continually cooped up in their shared cell.

Tempers grew short in such close company and frequently flared as days became weeks, then one month, then two, and there was no change in their situation. Verbal sparring occasionally turned into physical altercations, particularly when Watson demanded to know what Blackwood wanted of Holmes and Holmes refused to tell him.

Watson felt captivity wearing on him, wearing him thin, until he resented Holmes for being allowed the periodic outings, whatever he may endure at the end of them. He longed for a change of scenery, yearned for different company than the sullen Holmes who continually fretted about things he refused to speak aloud.

He wondered which of them would go mad first.

He could almost feel himself fraying, but at the same time he feared Holmes was completely unravelling.

Holmes continually looked pale and haunted, as always his appetite was wanting, and he hardly slept, forever pacing in his shirtsleeves--he refused to wear the robe he'd been given, preferring to shiver rather than wear something from Blackwood's Order--or lying curled up in a ball, to all appearances nearly catatonic. Sometimes in his pacing he would work himself into such a frenzy that he would bring up whatever he had eaten in the previous hours; such instances often followed his excursions from the cell, and Watson wondered yet again what was being done to him.

Holmes' compliance in going with the guards and his apparent trust in that woman worried Watson most of all. Holmes sighed whenever he brought it up, and impatiently explained that nothing was to be gained by resistance at this juncture, and the woman was useful, as she could see that their requests were granted.

Watson could see the logic, certainly, but what worried him was that it didn't seem quite right for Holmes to just . . . capitulate like that. It would have made more sense for Holmes to concoct some foolish-sounding ploy for them to break out of the cell when the guards came for him. Going quietly was not one of Holmes' talents.

And yet there he was, going quietly. It made no sense.

On the other hand, this was Holmes. There were many things that did not make sense when Holmes was involved.

Then he found out there was yet one more thing about Holmes that made no sense.

Holmes had been taken away that afternoon, just like usual. Watson did some pacing of his own in Holmes' absence, as he was usually gone for hours; he was contemplating a switch from pacing to something more active, like push-ups, when a knot of people started down the corridor toward him. Holmes was back early.

Watson watched the group's approach, then realized that Blackwood himself was accompanying Holmes. Curious.

No words were spoken until Holmes had been pushed back into the cell and the door clanged shut behind him. Then Blackwood said, "Congratulations are in order, Doctor. Your Holmes is going to be a mother."

Watson gaped at him, then cast a glance at Holmes, who stood at his full height, his arms crossed over his chest, glaring at Blackwood.

Blackwood laughed. "I see he has not informed his doctor of the . . . peculiarities of his anatomy. But alas, as much as I would love to witness the conversation you are about to have, I have more pressing matters to attend to. Ruling the world can be dreadfully tedious."

He laughed again as he swept away, his robe billowing out behind him.

When Watson turned back to Holmes, he saw that Holmes had become extremely pale and was visibly shaking. The only other time Watson had seen him shake like that was following a dip in the Thames just before a lengthy stakeout in the dead of winter; he had taken hours to warm up completely.

"Holmes, for goodness' sake, sit down," he remonstrated as he pulled Holmes over to his bunk.

Holmes obeyed as one in a daze, as if he actually believed what Blackwood had said.

"Holmes, he's lying. It is impossible, surely you know that!"

"Not wholly impossible," Holmes said woodenly. "Improbable, but not impossible."

"What are you saying? Surely you have lost your mind, to think you could be . . . pregnant." The word stuck in his throat as being entirely inappropriate for the man sitting before him.

"My sanity is irrelevant. This appears to be the only explanation for all of the facts."

"According to whom? Blackwood and his cronies? I fail to see the benefit, but they could be misleading you."

"They have no reason to lie in this matter," Holmes said, shifting onto his side and curling up with his knees near his chest.

"I don't understand how you can even think this is possible."

Holmes sighed heavily and closed his eyes. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Then tell me what facts have led to this conclusion."

"I'd rather not."

"What if I can provide an alternate explanation? Surely you would wish to know that."

Holmes looked up at him and nodded slowly.

"List the symptoms."

"Lethargy."

"You're often lethargic when you don't have a case."

"Nausea."

"Stress and anxiety can lead to stomach upset."

"Certain aromas are off-putting."

"Some aromas are off-putting to anyone."

"Irritability."

"We have been stuck in here for months. If you weren't irritable, I'd be worried."

Holmes shifted uncomfortably and avoided looking at Watson as he continued, "Soreness around the nipples."

Watson was slightly taken aback. "I thought you said you haven't been mistreated when you are taken away each week."

"I haven't been. There is a slight swelling in my lower abdomen."

"You could be bloated or constipated; the food we've been receiving is adequate explanation for that."

Holmes put a hand over his face. "There is a faint heartbeat present that is not my own."

The words were muffled, and for a moment Watson didn't understand. Then his mind processed what Holmes said, and he was struck speechless. "But . . . that's not possible. You're a man," he insisted dumbly.

"There is more to me than what you have seen."

"I've seen you naked. What more could there be?"

Holmes sighed heavily. "Do you really want to know?"

"I think I need to know."

Holmes unfastened his braces, then his trousers. He pushed his trousers down slightly as he shifted to lie on his back then took Watson's hand and guided it between his legs. "Now do you understand?"

Watson was simultaneously fascinated and flabbergasted. He had never seen even a hint in the medical literature that such a conformation was possible, and yet here it was in Holmes.

A multitude of questions clamored in his mind as his fingers explored this strange aspect of Holmes, but he knew from the tension in Holmes' body and the arm thrown over his eyes as if he were hiding behind it that all of his questions would not be welcome. Nor would an extended examination, regardless of Watson's scientific curiosity.

So he limited his inquiries to those pertinent to Holmes' presumed condition, and withdrew his hand as soon as he had gathered as much information as he could in that manner. He drew the edge of Holmes' blanket over his bared skin and asked, "May I listen?"

Holmes waved his hand dismissively, his arm still over his eyes. Watson retrieved the stethoscope from the bag under his bunk.

"You have been remarkably circumspect," Holmes commented. "I would have had many more questions, were I in your place."

"Just because I have not asked doesn't mean I don't have more questions, but most of them are unnecessary at this juncture."

He tugged Holmes' shirt up enough to reveal the lower abdomen. The 'swelling' Holmes had mentioned was small enough to be covered by Watson's hand and could have easily been caused by nothing more than a full bladder. Holmes stiffened when Watson touched it and held his breath when the end of the stethoscope pressed against his skin.

"Breathe, Holmes," Watson said absently as he strained to hear the sound he sought.

He had nearly given up when he discovered a faint, racing heartbeat-like murmur. With one hand he held the stethoscope in place while the other grasped Holmes' wrist and felt for his pulse--it was rapid, but not fast enough to match the other sound. "Oh."

Holmes snorted. "Indeed. So what is your alternate explanation, Doctor?"

Watson slowly rose from his crouch and took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. "I don't have one," he admitted, running his fingers through his hair as he sat on the edge of Holmes' bunk and stared sightlessly across the cell.

Holmes shifted behind him, no doubt righting his clothes, and curled up again, his back to Watson.

"One more question," Watson said after a lengthy silence. "How long has Blackwood been forcing himself on you?"

"Very good, Watson," Holmes said, his voice strained. "You have guessed who; perhaps you can also guess when."

Watson was about to object that he could not know what occurred before Holmes shared his cell, but then he recalled that Holmes had been beaten before being left with him; it was unlikely that Blackwood would have allowed him to be harmed if he could have been carrying his child. "That first time they took you away, when you were gone nearly a whole day."

"Well done," Holmes drawled, his voice thick with sarcasm.

"And you knew all along this was Blackwood's intention, which explains why you have been so . . . preoccupied."

Holmes said nothing.

~~~~


	5. Chapter 5

"Now that you have had the opportunity to acquaint yourself with your friend's condition, I thought it time for us to meet and discuss his care for the next six months," she said as she guided Watson--who was flanked by a pair of guards--through the winding passageways of the prison.

"His care," Watson repeated as she led him into a small, well-appointed room and gestured that he sit in one of a pair of armchairs. "Forgive me, but I fail to see why you would be involved."

She sat in the other armchair and smiled pleasantly. "I am a midwife, dear. I suppose I am not surprised that Sherlock didn't tell you."

"Neither am I," Watson muttered, glaring at the chaise opposite their chairs as if it were Holmes. He wondered at her use of Holmes' first name but did not wish to pursue the matter.

"Since you are a doctor as well as his friend, I have two requests to make of you: first, that you monitor his wellbeing and let me know of anything he needs to be more comfortable. That will be easy enough for you, I deem, and I am in a position to grant nearly any request that will ensure his health and the child's. The second, however, is more difficult."

Here she paused as if searching for the right words. "The situation is precarious, at best. Chances are good that Sherlock will miscarry at some point during this pregnancy. If he does not, it is unknown whether he will be able to successfully birth the child. There is a possibility that a surgeon will be required to ensure delivery."

"No. Absolutely not. I will not operate on Holmes in such a case."

"If that is what you wish, we will enlist the aid of another surgeon. I only thought you would desire to be in a position where you could be certain that everything possible was being done for your Mr. Holmes. If you do not agree, you would not be permitted to attend the birth at all." _And you'll never know if you could have done something to save him, should the worst happen._ It was unspoken, but hung in the air like a storm cloud.

Watson clenched his jaw and looked away from her expectant gaze, fighting with himself. If Holmes made it to the point of delivery, Watson would certainly wish to be present. But the prospect of cutting Holmes open, gutting him like a fish to retrieve a child he didn't want, turned Watson's stomach. To do so would likely to lead to Holmes' demise.

"I'll do it," Watson said reluctantly. "But I would operate only if absolutely necessary."

"Of course," she said quickly. "You would not be asked to step in unless one or both lives are at risk."

"And I can ask for anything that would help Holmes?" Watson turned the subject back to her first request.

"Correct."

"He needs better food," he said immediately. "More meat, cheese, vegetables."

"I will see to it," she promised. "Now let me tell you a few things about what to expect as the pregnancy progresses."

The conversation was quite useful from Watson's perspective, and left him feeling a bit more prepared to deal with the coming months. When he had no more questions, she took him back to Holmes.

As they neared the cell, she stooped and picked something up from the floor, which she handed to him. The stethoscope. It did not take long for Watson to infer that Holmes had used Watson's absence to borrow the stethoscope and, when he did not like what he heard, he flung it away. Watson's previous feeling of assurance quickly vanished as he belatedly remembered he had to deal with Holmes' mind as well as his body, and Holmes was notoriously difficult to soothe in the best of times.

Holmes was sitting in the corner behind Watson's bunk, the medical bag in his lap and its contents strewn helter-skelter around him. He twitched when the door clanged shut behind Watson, but did not look up.

"Holmes, what do you need?"

"Nothing you can provide," Holmes said with a sigh. He rose and folded himself onto his bunk.

 

Holmes refused to eat or drink for two days. Watson was often torn between letting him be and forcing him to imbibe something, but settled on the side of leaving Holmes alone. It was quite possible he was feeling too nauseated to eat or drink anything, after all.

Watson's hands-off approach abruptly ended when Holmes passed out upon rising from his bunk. Once Holmes regained consciousness, Watson sat him against the wall and forced some bread and water into him. When Holmes resisted, Watson knelt astride his legs to immobilize them and pinned Holmes' chest against the wall with his forearm; Holmes was too weak to fight his way out of Watson's hold.

Holmes stopped fighting after that. If Watson told him to eat, he ate, sometimes even when he was feeling ill enough that the food came right back up. He ceased his purposeful pacing and instead wandered the cell with aimless, halting steps when he summoned the energy to leave his bunk at all. He did not speak unless Watson started the conversation and when he did speak, his voice held none of its previous energy.

Exactly one week after everything changed, the midwife and a pair of guards returned to fetch Holmes again. "Is this really necessary?" Watson hissed, standing resolutely in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Watson, don't." Holmes sounded groggy, his nap interrupted by the unpleasant sound of the cell door being unlocked.

"No harm will come to him, I promise," she replied, gesturing for Watson to step aside.

He didn't. "According to whose definition of 'harm'?" he challenged.

"Mine. And yours," she said, stepping closer to him until they stood nearly eye to eye, for she almost matched him in height.

"Explain."

"I have been charged with ensuring that Henry's heir is born alive and well. You are concerned for your friend, I am concerned for his child, so our interests are one and the same until Sherlock's pregnancy reaches its end. To that end, I will do everything in my power to safeguard his well-being. In this case, we are merely taking him to bathe, and then Henry would like to see him." She lowered her voice slightly. "There will be no intimate relations, you have my word. Sherlock does not look well enough."

Watson relaxed somewhat and stepped out of the doorway. Holmes shuffled out and was led down the hall at the midwife's nod, though she remained behind. "He is not well," Watson confirmed, and told her of the change in Holmes' demeanor.

"I will see what I can do. Such behavior is not uncommon when one is facing an unwanted pregnancy."

Watson did not ask how she knew this.

 

Holmes' appetite returned a fortnight later, to the point that he ate as often as Watson did, though he still seemed to consider meals a chore to be endured. Watson would watch him eat with some amusement, especially when Watson gave him well over half the food and Holmes would consume it all without hesitation or complaint.

Holmes' weekly outings continued, for Blackwood was keen to follow the progress of his child. At Watson's request, the midwife arranged it so that they would be taken together for their baths--which were now weekly, and during which Marjorie and Watson would assess Holmes' health--and then Holmes would go on to his 'interview' with Blackwood while Watson was returned to their cell and discussed any concerns with Marjorie.

Watson was fascinated by the steady growth of Holmes' abdomen despite the distress it caused Holmes (he had taken to calling it 'the parasite', which was, strictly speaking, true). It was a mere matter of weeks for the small swelling to develop into a noticeable bulge that then expanded upward and outward until even the looseness of Holmes' shirt could not disguise the roundness of his middle.

Holmes' over-large clothes were quite necessary by the time three months had passed after the diagnosis, for his own trousers would have ceased to button as soon as the effects of his renewed appetite made their way to his waist. Marjorie guessed he would be able to wear his trousers for the entirety of the pregnancy, though toward the end he might have to let them rest at his hips or leave the top button unbuttoned with the shirt untucked to hide the gap.

The first movements of the child caused Holmes no end of consternation. It did not help that he was asleep when he felt the initial flutters; Watson could only guess how Holmes' mind incorporated that into his dreams. Holmes did not tell Watson at first that anything had happened, instead waiting to mention it to Marjorie several days later (at which point Watson finally understood why Holmes had been pacing frenetically during those several days). She assured him it was the child and that such subtle movements were normal at this stage.

Watson suspected Holmes didn't fully believe her until the movements grew strong enough to be felt from the outside and Watson could confirm that yes, something really was moving and no, it wasn't just Holmes that could feel it.

On one occasion the guards neglected to lock the cell door after bringing Holmes back. Watson watched them go, waiting for them to realize the oversight, but neither did. When the guards had been gone for some minutes, he rose and addressed Holmes. "Come on, let's go."

Holmes did not budge from his bunk.

"Don't tell me you didn't notice they didn't lock the door."

"Of course I noticed," Holmes snapped irritably. "It is most likely a trap. Even if it is not a trap and we succeed in escaping, what then? There are only so many disguises that I can presently assume, and I could not hide for long in this state. Blackwood would pursue us with all his strength and it would not go well for you when they found us."

"But-"

"Think, Watson!" he said fiercely. "We know nothing of what has transpired during our captivity. We don't know who would help us rather than turn us in. We don't know the placement of Blackwood's forces or how their surveillance operates. We have no resources, and you can be certain they are monitoring my brother very closely, so he could not directly assist us. Now tell me: does escape still seem prudent?"

Watson sighed, vacillating as he gripped one of the door's bars. "You just don't want anyone else to see you like this," he accused half-heartedly, releasing the door and slumping onto his bunk.

Holmes looked down at himself and poked his belly with a finger. "That is true," he admitted ruefully. "It's not entirely pertinent to my argument, but yes, you are correct."

The guard who brought their dinner locked the door, ending any thought of escape. Marjorie arrived not long after the guard left, and as soon as she spoke Watson knew Holmes was correct in suspecting a trap.

"Thank you, gentlemen," she said gravely. "Your obedience has allowed me to prove a point to Henry." She opened a bottle of wine and passed it to Watson through the bars. "I could not bring glasses, and I will have to return for the bottle. You understand."

"We do," Holmes said. "This will suffice. Thank you."

She nodded and left. Watson moved to share Holmes' bunk so they could pass the wine bottle. It was quite good, and Watson resisted the urge to wonder where it had come from--ill-gotten goods, no doubt.

Holmes was already asleep--the wine was potent and they had not had any alcohol for months--when Marjorie returned for the bottle. It was just as well he was able to sleep for a while, for he spent much of the rest of the night awake and suffering heartburn from the indulgence.


	6. Chapter 6

Watson was roused from sleep by a noise he could not immediately place. When it repeated, he realized Holmes was throwing up, something he hadn't done for months. Marjorie had told them the nausea was more typical of the early part of pregnancy, and that had been true in Holmes' case. Watson later blamed his slow thinking on the fact that he wasn't fully awake; at that moment, somehow he thought that Holmes throwing up wasn't anything to be concerned about despite Holmes being six and a half months along.

Then Holmes groaned. "Holmes?" Watson said, sitting up and squinting to make out any sort of shape in the darkness. The bucket was, naturally, in the corner behind Holmes' bunk--Holmes having need of it more often--so Watson had to rise and shuffle over to where he could hear Holmes' labored breathing.

When his foot struck something, he stooped and began feeling about, his hand finding Holmes' back at the same moment that his eyes finally adjusted enough to see the vague outline of Holmes' hunched form. Heat radiated through the shirt beneath his fingers, and he dropped to one knee as his hand sought Holmes' forehead. As he would've guessed, Holmes was burning with fever, his skin wet with perspiration.

Holmes retched until Watson was certain he was only bringing up bile even though he couldn't see the bucket's contents. At length he subsided into occasionally coughing and gagging, so Watson helped him stagger to his bunk. But Holmes was not to be granted a respite, for nearly as soon as he'd sat down, he moaned and fumbled with his clothing.

Watson could only wait helplessly while Holmes used the bucket for its other purpose and hope that the morning guard would arrive soon with some light and their breakfast so he could be sent to fetch Marjorie. She had told him in their very first meeting that he could send for her assistance at any time, but this was the first time he'd had the need to do so.

When a good half-hour had passed with no sign of anyone, he grew impatient and began yelling and rattling the bars; there had to be guards around somewhere, after all. One appeared fairly quickly and was willing to set his torch in the holder outside their cell while he went in search of Marjorie.

His mission accomplished, Watson returned his attention to Holmes, whose face looked nearly grey in the dim light, his shaggy hair damp and clinging to his face and neck. Watson helped him clean up a little, then set his clothes to rights--except for his trousers and pants, which had been soiled--and settled him on his bunk after a few sips of water. Holmes trembled and shook with chills, and did not object when Watson covered him with both of their blankets as well as the hated robe.

Marjorie's arrival was announced by the string of oaths she blurted when she caught sight of Holmes. "How long has he been like this?" she demanded and Watson told her what had happened since he woke.

"He didn't eat as much as usual yesterday, but I thought the heartburn was to blame," Watson concluded. "I didn't suspect he was ill."

"I feared this would happen," she said, then commanded the guard to bring her a number of items, including a nightshirt, a basin and cloths, and several medicines. When the guard left, she resumed the conversation as if it had not been interrupted. "Henry was feverish when he insisted upon seeing Sherlock two days ago. I told him it was not wise, but he did not heed my advice. He has been laid low with this same ailment ever since, though he is now recovering. I will have many choice words for him when I see him next," she said with a growl, and Watson was glad he and Holmes had chosen not to cross her.

Holmes spent three days in the throes of the stomach flu, a high fever rendering him (fortunately) nearly insensible of the alarming speed with which anything that went into him either went through him or came back out again. Watson and Marjorie weren't so fortunate, and spent much of that time worrying about dehydration and whether his fever was too high and how the child would fare if Holmes could not keep anything down for much longer. Marjorie was most concerned by this last point and while Watson disagreed with the focus, he certainly agreed that Holmes would not fare well without some sort of sustenance and soon.

They debated the merits of the various alternate methods by which to nourish the ailing and had nearly agreed on one to use by the fourth morning of Holmes' illness. None would be pleasant for Holmes, but considering he made only brief forays into lucidity once in a while, that was the least of their worries. But the debate was unnecessary, for that fourth morning was the one when he was able to take a few sips of broth and keep it down.

After an hour passed without any ill effects, he was given a few more sips. Another hour, a few more sips. Following the third hour, Holmes fell into an exhausted sleep and both Watson and Marjorie were cautiously optimistic that the worst was over.

It was. Holmes' fever remained high for two more days and crept down at a snail's pace after that; Holmes wasn't truly awake and aware again until a week had passed after the symptoms began. It took nearly a fortnight for him to progress from liquids to taking small amounts of bland food, his stomach exceedingly sensitive after the ordeal. He was so weak as to be virtually bedridden while he recovered and his stomach readjusted to accepting food again; his weakness also meant he took frequent naps, so at least he wasn't fretting about having nothing to do.

When Holmes was strong enough to stand and shuffle about the cell under his own power, they took an outing to have their long-overdue baths. Marjorie even found a wheeled chair for Holmes, who steadfastly refused to be carried. Watson informed him that he would use the chair or not go at all; Holmes had already voiced his discontent about the smell of his person (despite the sponge baths he had been given while unwell), so he couldn't very well opt not to go.

Watson was relieved to be out of the cell, out of that corridor, even though it meant he had to be blindfolded and led about (as always). He, too, had been smelling rather ripe, and was looking forward to being submerged in warm water for a time.

Just like always, Holmes undressed and grudgingly allowed Marjorie and Watson to take a look at him before he stepped into the bath. It was the first time Watson had seen Holmes fully uncovered since he'd become ill, and he was struck by how the illness had wasted Holmes' spare frame. He looked gaunt, starved, not an extra ounce anywhere on his limbs or torso, but then there was his abdomen. His belly was startlingly round and full in comparison, marred by marks from the stretching of the skin. It was an astonishing sight.

It was a sight that Watson became accustomed to, for even as Holmes recovered and regained much of his appetite--he could not eat much at once, but he ate more often to make up for it--any weight he might have put on was solely in his belly, which seemed to grow larger almost daily. As the child grew in those last months, Holmes himself seemed to shrink, as if his body were withering even as the parasite within it thrived.

Holmes attempted to resume his pacing once he was well enough to chafe at being in bed constantly, but found he had a number of unpleasant physical symptoms when he did so. He did not speak of them to Watson, but the way he walked was instructive and indicated soreness in the hips and back at the very least. Watson suspected there was more to it than that.

The first time Holmes tried walking to the bathing room again, it took them twice as long to get there as usual, and by the time they arrived, Holmes' breathing was severely impaired and his feet and ankles were visibly swollen. He did not object when Marjorie retrieved the wheeled chair for the return trip, though Watson could tell he was not pleased by his predicament.

Marjorie managed to postpone Holmes' next visit to Blackwood for nearly a month while he recovered, persuading him for just a little more time until she could not hold it off any longer. Holmes returned from that encounter looking oddly pleased; evidently Blackwood was not happy with the diminishment of Holmes' physique, which Holmes told him (with much glee, from how he retold it) was his fault and his fault only. And then Marjorie had scolded Blackwood--apparently not for the first time--for having made Holmes ill in the first place before she took Holmes away in a huff.

Watson made some idle comment about not understanding how Marjorie could get away with talking back to Blackwood, and Holmes said something startling. "She hasn't gotten away with it. Why else do you think she's here?"

"Here? You mean she's a prisoner too?"

Holmes gave him an odd look. "Hadn't you wondered how it was that she is always available at any moment? Granted, she has more privileges than most, but she is most assuredly a captive here. And if she fails to see that Blackwood's heir is born alive and well"--here he gestured at himself with an expression of distaste--"it will cost her life."

Watson could only gape at him for a long, awkward moment. "I had no idea," he said lamely. "But that explains why she was so upset about you being ill."

"Precisely." Holmes smirked. "It is curious, though, that she can make threats to his person without retaliation. He seems willing to indulge her more readily than he would anyone else."

"You did say she helped raise him. Even Blackwood can have sympathy for a parental figure."

"He had none for his father, but the removal of his father also granted him a role he could not have had otherwise. I doubt he has any particularly deep feeling for her; rather, I suspect she is still of use to him, most likely as it concerns me. Once she is no longer useful, however . . . "

Holmes didn't need to continue for Watson to understand him perfectly. "Do you think she has realized that?"

Holmes met his gaze evenly. "I believe she is aware of little else."


	7. Chapter 7

When Marjorie came to retrieve them the following week, she seemed preoccupied, but would not speak of anything out of the ordinary until they were shut in the bathing room alone. She spoke in a low tone so the guard outside could not hear. "Henry is perturbed of late. His plans are being thwarted at every turn, and he has not yet been able to find the culprit. He may attempt to take it out on you, Sherlock, for he suspects your brother is complicit even though there is not a shred of proof."

"There wouldn't be," Holmes said confidently, his volume dropping to match hers.

"I contacted your brother about you," she said. "I did not explain the details of the situation, but I told him to prepare a place for you to hide, keeping in mind that you will be convalescent."

Watson started to ask questions, but Holmes held up his hand to halt them. "You are discontent with the state of things to the point that you will take a grave risk upon yourself to help us escape. But not immediately."

"Not immediately," she confirmed. "We will await the birth of the child. That gives us four to six weeks in which to plan."

"What about you?" Watson asked.

"I will take care of myself," she answered firmly. "I can manipulate Henry's attitude toward me enough to preserve my own life, if only for the sake of his child."

"And if the manipulation fails?" Holmes asked mildly.

She did not even blink. "Then I will kill him."

Watson was shocked, but Holmes merely nodded. "Quite right," he said and climbed into his tub. "Mycroft will no doubt have suggestions as to the most effective means of spiriting us away."

"He has already provided several," she confirmed with a laugh. "Now tell me, are you still having the false contractions?"

"Every day," Watson put in.

Holmes glared at him. "I thought I hid it better than that."

"Well, you didn't," Watson said with a grin.

They returned to their typical subjects of conversation--primarily to do with Holmes and his ever weightier burden--and were finished within the usual amount of time, so there could be no suspicion of what had transpired.

 

"You will tell me who is working against me."

Holmes clasped his hands behind his back, rocking on his feet a bit, and smirked. "Or what? I'm not going to volunteer information about the others that oppose you."

Blackwood backhanded him, drawing blood from the corner of his mouth. "Oh, but you will. If you do not, I will ensure that your life is a misery."

Holmes raised an eyebrow inquiringly and exaggeratedly licked the blood from his lip. "Will you really," he said insolently. "I don't think you realize how much I can stand."

"Let us see," Blackwood said, rising to the bait. "Turn around and put your hands on the table."

Holmes didn't move, so Blackwood struck him again and turned him while he was disoriented, then pushed him so Holmes had no alternative but to catch himself on the table. It was a bit of a reach, but Blackwood prevented him from inching any closer, so he had to stretch, his back taut and his grasp on the table tenuous. Then his trousers dropped in a heap around his ankles--Blackwood had unbuttoned the back of his braces--and he let his head hang down.

"You must be uncomfortable," Blackwood crooned, reaching down to caress Holmes' hanging stomach. "Let me give you something else to think about."

His shirt was pushed up, leaving everything from his waist to his ankles exposed. Then the first blow landed squarely across his buttocks. A belt, Holmes identified as the next strike slapped across his lower back. He flinched.

Holmes held back his cries by biting his lip or the insides of his cheeks; toward the end he thought he tasted blood, but that might have been from the split lip. The blows fell with brutal regularity and efficiency, stopping only when every inch of skin from his waist to the middle of his thighs was throbbing.

Blackwood's hand felt cold against the skin of his hip and it might have been almost pleasant if not for the slap that immediately followed. Holmes jumped and gasped at a jolt of pain as his back protested the abrupt movement. Then Blackwood was grabbing him by the hips and pressing close to him. The feel of skin and a hardness against his misused flesh was the only warning he had before Blackwood sank into him, the awkward angle causing him pain, but he supposed he should be grateful that Blackwood used the opening that needed no preparation.

Any relief he might have felt about that point did not last, for it was only a scant few strokes later that fingers were spreading his cheeks and Blackwood shifted his attentions. Holmes' capacity for pain was nearly reached as he was breached without preparation and with only the lubricant provided by his own body.

He was not truly aware of what followed, nor how it was that he came to be sprawled on his side on the floor. He roused somewhat when a familiar and trusted voice demanded, "What have you done?"

"I have shown him the consequences of failing to divulge the names of those working against me."

"He has been cut off from all news for months, Henry. He doesn't even know who of his friends remains alive and uncaptured, so how on earth do you expect him to be able to give you useful information? The time for that has long since passed." She spoke sharply, but her hands on him were gentle as she surveyed the damage and covered him with a robe.

"He does not need to know who lives to tell me who he was working with," Blackwood said with what sounded suspiciously like a snarl.

"Be reasonable," Marjorie chided, her voice growing more distant. "Perhaps if you allow him to learn of what has occurred since his capture, he might be able to give you something to work with. Something recent. You only waste your time forcing him to tell you anything he presently knows."

The voices faded to murmurs, but from the general tone, Holmes could infer that Blackwood had reluctantly agreed to the proposition. What was more, he was certain that Marjorie's intent had nothing to do with helping Blackwood and everything to do with enabling their escape. She was truly a formidable ally.

 

"Sheer propaganda and nothing more," Holmes said despairingly, flinging yet another paper to the newspaper-strewn floor of the cell.

"Surely you can find something of use in it," Watson said from behind another issue, flicking it down to look at him with one eyebrow raised. "Even I can tell that they minimise the disruptive effects of the resistance and give far more coverage than necessary to the few successes of Blackwood's rule."

Holmes propelled himself from his side up to standing--the welts from the belting had not yet begun to heal and he could not sit normally for more than a few seconds--and began pacing, heedlessly trampling over the discarded newsprint. "Yes, of course, but I am not conducting a study on the common methods used to mislead a credulous public. I need details about the exploits of the resistance. Dates, locations, results. From these I can predict the major actors and possibly their next steps."

Watson watched him closely, not because he was paying attention to Holmes' rambling, but to be ready if he slipped on the papers he insisted upon throwing about. Perhaps surprisingly, Holmes remained steady on his feet as he wandered his inconsistent route (Watson rather thought 'waddling' would be a better word, but didn't dare say so in front of Holmes).

"Couldn't your brother communicate some of that information through coded messages in the agony columns?"

"Only if he wanted to join us here," Holmes said immediately. "Dates and names would be too recognizable, even in code, in such a public format."

Holmes continued brooding and pacing for some time, until Watson convinced him to give his feet a rest, at which point he laid on his bunk and moodily stared at another day's paper from the large stack Marjorie had acquired for them. He fell asleep in this position, the paper dangling from his hand and his mouth open slightly as he snored. Watson extinguished the torch above Holmes' bed and sat in the darkness, thinking about their predicament.

It was just as well Holmes was now focused on gathering information toward a purpose; his spirits had of late been dangerously low, to the point that Watson worried about his mental wellbeing as well as his physical health. And there was more than enough to worry about physically.

To put it bluntly, Holmes was not built for child-bearing, and the strain was becoming evident. He was in constant pain--even without Blackwood's interference--though he would not admit it if asked directly. His skin was exceedingly pale, and he was never well-rested. His digestion and breathing were significantly impaired and his heart raced even from the small effort of rising from his bunk. Some bodily strain was typical in pregnancy, yes, but Holmes' health seemed to be deteriorating.

 

"There must be a way to obtain news that has not been digested by the government. Leaflets, pamphlets, flyers on buildings, *something*."

Marjorie tilted her head as she considered this. "Well, yes, there is a circular that Henry's men have been trying to shut down. It started not long after your arrest, I believe. But I do not know if it is possible for me to obtain copies; any publication of its kind is strictly illegal and to be caught with it . . ."

"If you let my brother know that I need news, he will ensure its delivery to you. You have only to get it to us, and Blackwood will never have reason to suspect your involvement."

She laughed half-heartedly. "If he finds out that you have received anything from outside, he will know it is from me. I am the only one capable of getting it to you."

"He will not find out we had it," Holmes promised.

"I will do my best," she agreed with a sigh. "Now get out of the tub. You've gone all wrinkly."

 

He saw her coming, accompanied by two guards, and stood at the cell door to meet her. "You're early," Watson said despairingly. "He's only just fallen asleep."

"You make him sound like a fussy child," she said with a smile as she carefully unlocked the door.

"Sometimes he acts like one," he acknowledged. "Can't it wait a little while?"

"I have not come for him." She pulled open the door, then fumbled with the clasp of her robe. "Put this over him and we shall go. I have something to show you."

Watson did as he was told, then stepped outside and waited as she locked the door again. Only once they were strolling several paces in front of the guards did he ask in a low voice, "Why was your robe making noise? It sounded almost like-"

"-newspaper," she finished. "It was. That was the only way I could think to get it to Sherlock without being discovered." She turned down a different corridor than usual and opened a door, ushering him inside.

The small room must have been an office at some point, for it boasted a coal-fired stove, but the other furnishings were obviously borrowed from elsewhere, as prison offices are not typically supplied with a low couch or a birthing stool. In one corner was a table beneath a hanging lamp and a filing cabinet sat beside it. Marjorie went to the cabinet and opened a drawer. "Henry acquired this from a hospital and I wanted you to take a look while we still have time to find any missing pieces."

She carefully set a surgical kit on the table, then stepped aside so he could examine it. It was a fine set and looked quite new--or merely unused--and as such, it was fully stocked. The weight of a scalpel in his hand made him unaccountably nervous, and he replaced it quickly. "Everything is here," he told her. "But I hope not to use it."

"Yes, of course," she said quietly as she returned the kit to the drawer. "Henry will not allow for an anesthetist, so I also had them acquire ether for our use. I hope not to use that, either."

Marjorie showed him the other supplies she had stored in the room, and they spent some time discussing how things might proceed once labor began. "The most important thing is to get him here before the birth, even if we must carry him," she said. "A cell is not an appropriate place for a child."

"Or an adult," Watson muttered darkly.

She laughed. "On that, we agree."

Holmes was awake by the time they returned. He rose awkwardly and Watson hurried in to help him up. Holmes had the robe draped over his arm, and he returned it to Marjorie with his thanks. Watson noticed that it no longer rustled.

They slowly strolled to the bathing room, allowing Holmes to meander along at the pace that was comfortable. Watson thought Holmes was moving a little better than he had been, but didn't say anything since he really knew nothing on the matter.

Marjorie had no such qualms. As soon as the door was shut behind them, she had her hands on Holmes' belly, feeling for the positioning of the child. "At last," she said, sounding relieved. "I was beginning to worry that the child wanted to come out backwards. But no, he has finally settled into the birthing position. Our preparations are just in time." She turned to Watson. "You see how the weight has shifted downward?"

"I certainly noticed," Holmes grumbled.

"If you need something for the pain, I can see that you get it," Marjorie assured him.

Holmes shrugged off the suggestion. "It is uncomfortable, that is all."

"Go on into your bath, then. That should ease you for a time."

Once Holmes was settled--he needed to hold on to Watson while he climbed in to the slippery tub, for the changed shape and weight of his body made it difficult to balance properly--Watson asked Marjorie, "How much longer do we have, if the child is ready for birth?"

"It could be tomorrow, it could be four weeks from now when I have guessed that he is due. The settling typically precedes the birth, but by how much is different in each circumstance." She patted his shoulder sympathetically. "It is difficult to wait, but that is all that can be done for now."


	8. Chapter 8

"Well?" Blackwood said with no little irritation.

"Well?" Holmes repeated back blandly.

"I provided news. In return, you are to provide names, places, information. That was the agreement."

"You call that news?" Holmes didn't even try to hide his derision. "At best, it is drivel, at worst, pure propaganda. If the quality of the newspaper is any indication of the quality of your government's intelligence, it is a wonder you have managed to capture anyone, much less me."

Blackwood's expression turned thunderous and it was only with an obvious effort that he resisted the urge to strike Holmes. Instead, he grabbed him by the hair and pushed him into one of the armchairs. Holmes winced as he landed; it had only been two weeks since Blackwood had attacked him with his belt and the injuries were not healing as well as they might have in the past.

"You will sit here until you provide information of value."

"How will you know if I do?" Holmes asked, feigning innocence.

Blackwood slapped him, then grasped his chin with one hand and glared into his eyes. "Just remember that your usefulness is nearing its end," he growled, his other hand passing roughly over Holmes' protruding stomach. "If you continue to try me, I will have the child cut from you and leave you to die."

Holmes glimpsed a wild madness in Blackwood's eyes that had not been there during previous encounters and it chilled him. Blackwood released his chin, then, after cruelly pinching one of his nipples, produced velvet cords from a pocket in his robe. These he used to tie Holmes' arms to the chair, starting at the wrists and criss-crossing them up to his elbows.

When Holmes was securely fastened, Blackwood opened the door and called, "You may begin. Let's have a half dozen to start."

In the corridor there was the sound of a whip being brought down and a man cried out. Though the man was obviously gagged, Holmes immediately recognized the voice. He cringed with each of the blows to Watson's back; Blackwood watched him with a look of utmost satisfaction.

When the half dozen strokes had been administered, Blackwood stood over him and said, "Now do you have anything to say to me?"

Holmes remained silent.

"Perhaps it would be better to show you what you've done." He raised his voice. "Bring him in."

Watson stumbled in, propelled by two guards with firm grips on his upper arms. He was shirtless, his wrists bound in handcuffs and his ankles in shackles. From the marks on his wrists, his arms had been held above his head using the cuffs--perhaps tied to or hung from something on the wall--while he'd been whipped. Watson met his gaze with a grim look and a nod, then he was turned around so Holmes could see the bleeding stripes upon his back.

"Do you have anything to tell me?" Blackwood's sneer was audible in his voice.

Holmes didn't speak; his mind was caught on the thought that Watson looked thinner than he had thought he was--possibly caused by the difference in lighting.

"Perhaps seeing him punished on your behalf will loosen your tongue."

The left-hand guard handed Blackwood the whip and he flicked it experimentally a few times before turning abruptly and bringing it down across Watson's back. A new line of blood quickly rose, forming large beads where this stripe crossed some of the others.

Blackwood looked at Holmes expectantly, idly swinging the whip.

"Perhaps your small mind failed to comprehend my meaning earlier: that pathetic excuse for a newspaper told me nothing that the average mind wouldn't be able to gather from what little is said of any of the efforts to oppose you."

"Why don't you enlighten me, and we'll see if what you say is common knowledge, as you imply."

"Holmes," Watson said sharply behind his gag.

Holmes paid no heed. "Either your government is incompetent, or it is infiltrated with your opposition at every level, up to the very highest. I would say that both have the element of truth, but to what degree one or the other is true I cannot say without more data. Among the populace, there are more against you than allied with you, which is why there are never witnesses to be found when acts of vandalism or petty crime occur. The police force only obeys Lord Coward when they must; there are a few loyal to you, but only a few."

When Holmes stopped, Blackwood said with a gleam in his eyes, "By all means, continue. This is most instructive."

Holmes didn't like Blackwood's look, but he had moved away from Watson, so he continued with his litany of his interpretations of society under Blackwood as gleaned from the official newspaper. When he finally trailed off with a shrug, Blackwood began interrogating him on what he'd said. "So you believe there is opposition or incompetence within my government?"

"Both, I dare say," Holmes said lightly.

"And your brother? What would you say of him?"

"Mycroft is the most competent man alive," Holmes said evenly. "As for his loyalty, well, he is a creature of habit and routine as I'm sure your surveillance has already revealed to you. Obeying his superiors requires far less effort than working against them, so you have nothing to fear from him."

"You expect me to believe that the brother of the great Sherlock Holmes is not working to help his brother escape?"

"Why should he? He is probably enjoying the fact that I am unable to drop in on him unannounced. I do enjoy disrupting his routines." He grinned, remembering the consternation caused by his last visit to Mycroft.

Blackwood looked suspicious. "And despite the flaws you see in every level of my government, you want me to believe that none of the guards have tried to assist you in escaping or passed information to you from your brother or anyone else?"

"I'm still here," Holmes pointed out impatiently. "I have not received word from anyone outside since I was brought here. It would seem the guards are singularly loyal. Perhaps you should promote them."

Blackwood snorted and turned away, pacing with an air of impatience, twitching the whip that was still in his hand. He stopped in front of Watson. "Doctor, is he telling the truth?"

Watson shrugged and nodded. "As far as I know," he said. The gag muffled his words but they were still understandable.

Blackwood thrust the whip back at the guard who'd given it to him and stalked from the room. "Fetch Mother to see to them," he said and departed.

 

"You lied," Watson said flatly when they were alone in the cell.

"I did nothing of the kind," Holmes retorted, sounding affronted. "He asked if any of the guards have provided information or tried to help with an escape. None of the guards have done any such thing."

"That's just a technicality."

"On the contrary. Asking the right question is instrumental to acquiring the true answer. Had he said 'anyone' in place of 'any of the guards', then I might have been in a tight spot. The question that was asked was fundamentally flawed, much like the man asking it."

"And if he had asked the question using 'anyone' instead, what would you have said?"

"I would have answered the same way," Holmes admitted cheerfully. "Now get up a moment, I need to retrieve those papers. I stashed them under your mattress."

"My mattress? Why my mattress?"

"They'd be less likely to search there. You're not the one they suspect of receiving information from outside."

Grumbling, Watson pushed himself up and waited while Holmes thoroughly mussed the bedding as he retrieved one of the papers. "How could you possibly answer the same way? You just said that if he'd said 'anyone', you'd be in a tight spot."

"I said I might be in a tight spot," Holmes corrected as he returned to his bunk and settled on his side. "We have not, as yet, received an actual message from Mycroft. Knowing that Marjorie has received word from him is not the same thing. She also has not yet assisted us in escaping; planning an escape that has not been attempted is not equivalent to assisting in an escape."

"Have you always been this pedantic?" Watson queried with exasperation as he contemplated how to lie down without making his back start bleeding again. He decided to pull out a paper for himself, then simply sat on his bunk to read it.

"Of course," Holmes said absently, studying something on the page before him.

They read in silence until the torch began to flicker and die. Watson rose and took the paper from Holmes and stowed them beneath his mattress. "Do you need something to help you sleep?"

"No, I need to do some thinking."

"You'd better not be cranky with me in the morning, then," Watson warned, taking a small dose of sedative so the sting of his back wouldn't disturb him as much. The torch's light died and Watson crawled into bed by feel.

"I'm sorry about your back," Holmes said a while later, when Watson was nearly asleep.

"Not your fault, and it's better me than you right now," Watson said drowsily. "Don't worry about it."

 

Marjorie visited daily to tend Watson's wounds. She was most often accompanied by a guard, so their conversation could only touch on innocent subjects: the healing of Watson's injuries, the pending arrival of Holmes' child, any particular foods or medicines they would like to have. On the rare days she came alone, she brought information about the plan to free them and once she brought a few more newspapers, though Holmes had warned her to be excessively cautious in light of what he'd told Blackwood. She also related to them how Blackwood was endeavoring to 'purge the ranks' and locate any traitors in the midst of his staff, the police force, and all levels of government.

In private, Watson questioned Holmes about what he gathered from the papers Marjorie brought--when names were provided, they were obviously false, and he couldn't guess who it referred to--and Holmes explained as much as he could infer. When they were finished with a particular page, it was very carefully burned and the ashes were scattered into the waste pail.

Watson also often asked whether he was in any more pain than usual and Holmes always quickly answered in the negative. That part of the conversation never ventured beyond that point; both were anxious about the ever-nearing event for different reasons, so neither one talked about it.

Fortunately for them, Marjorie wasn't nearly so reticent and patiently outlined what was likely to occur and at what point in the process. Watson was not reassured, and Holmes seemed to view the whole thing with trepidation, which was, to be fair, quite understandable since he would be the one enduring it.

The next time Holmes had to face Blackwood, there was no talk of information, no threats to Watson's person, just a very aroused Blackwood that appeared extremely pleased at the prospect of the upcoming birth of his heir. Holmes let his mind wander while he suffered Blackwood's amorous attentions, and thought he might even prefer being threatened to this. Watson would likely disagree, however, since he suffered the execution of those threats.

The following week Blackwood was away from London, and Holmes had a reprieve. He was almost sorry, as he would've enjoyed baiting him to see how long it took for him to lose his temper. There was nothing better to do, now that he'd finished reading everything that Marjorie brought and had drawn as many conclusions as were reasonable to draw.

 

Holmes was bored and supremely uncomfortable. He had been able to breathe and eat a little better ever since the child had dropped into position, but on the other hand the shift in weight compressed his bladder and it seemed he constantly felt the need to urinate. Which was a problem, since the bucket was on the floor and he could not see where he was aiming; he tried kneeling down, but his balance was nonexistent and more often than not he ended up on his still-stinging behind when he made the attempt. He knew Watson laughed at him, even if he didn't do it aloud.

If anyone had ever told him he'd be in such a ridiculous position--captured by Blackwood, pregnant by Blackwood, the whole bit--he'd have laughed in derision and insinuated that they belonged in Bedlam. Yet here he was.

And he longed for it to be over. Any scientific curiosity he might have had about the condition had long since been satisfied. He could not comprehend why many women willingly endured this state multiple times, even after they had been through it once and knew what would come the next time. Especially the birth part. As much as he wished to be done with the experience, the prospect of a babe forcing its way out of his body frightened--yes, frightened--him. He was not sure whether to be reassured or agitated by the fact that Watson dreaded that final step as much as he did. Marjorie's assurances were more helpful--she was, after all, the only available expert--but only to a point, for the uncertainties introduced by his physical differences loomed over them like a storm cloud.

As the days dragged by, Holmes found he was frequently tired and often dozed, napped, drifted off, or whatever other words there were that describe the occurrence of realizing you have fallen asleep only because you abruptly wake up again. On one such occasion, he roused at the sound of voices; Watson was speaking quietly to Marjorie of his concerns about Holmes' exhaustion. "He is gathering his strength for what is to come," she replied. Holmes wondered if that could be true even as he drifted off again; if asked, he would have said that the parasite was overcoming his strength.

When he was awake, he grew increasingly restless, feeling driven to do *something* though there was nothing to do but pace. He welcomed the next outing despite having to face Blackwood again, for it gave him somewhere else to walk. The longer walk also exhausted him enough that he fell asleep directly after eating and slept straight through until morning.

His back ached terribly when he rose to tend to business the next morning, which he took to mean he'd overdone it the previous day. It was not a surprise; Blackwood had made him stand still and silently accept verbal abuse thrown at him for quite some time. Most of the insults had not affected him--he'd learned early in life not to allow such attacks to wound him--but the statement, 'now you look like the woman you are', still stung. It was precisely because he was not a woman that his current situation was so abhorrent.

"Holmes, are you in pain?" Watson's voice interrupted his reverie.

Holmes realized he was glaring fiercely at the opposite wall and cleared his expression. "No more than usual," he said quickly.

His back was troublesome all day, aching to the point that he tried some of the positions Marjorie told him could help with the pain. He slid to his knees on the floor, bending over and trying in vain to stretch away the ache.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Watson huffed, kneeling behind Holmes and briskly starting to massage his lower back. "I've been watching you fidget all day and it's driving me crazy."

Holmes sighed as Watson's fingers soothed away some of the tension. Under Watson's ministrations he felt himself relax somewhat, and he suddenly felt very tired. If he hadn't been kneeling on a hard floor, he might even have fallen asleep.

Watson seemed to realize this and gently tugged on his shoulder to help him sit up. "Lean against me," he murmured; Holmes saw no reason not to obey, and obligingly shifted his legs at Watson's urging so they were stretched out in front of him. Watson had adjusted his position as well, and sat so Holmes could lean back on him. "Feel better?"

"Some, thanks," Holmes murmured. He drifted for a while, aware of Watson behind him but not fully attuned to his surroundings. Distantly he felt a cramping, and he instinctively moved his hand to rub at his stomach to make it stop. It didn't immediately, but did eventually fade away, and he drifted off again.

A while later, it happened again, and he felt Watson's hand atop his as he fretfully stroked at the pain--more of a pinching, really--even though his efforts did nothing. It, too, faded away, and he thought nothing more of it.


	9. Chapter 9

Holmes slept for more than an hour with Watson as his cushion. By the time he roused, several parts of Watson's body had fallen asleep from holding his position on a rock-hard floor, but that was the least of Watson's worries. He noticed that Holmes had some discomfort focused in his abdomen and, when it recurred, he was concerned enough to feel Holmes' stomach for himself. The muscles tightened under his hand, and it occurred to him that the birth process might be starting. But Holmes was not overly bothered--he didn't even wake for one of the cramps--so he assumed this must be another instance of those early pains that Holmes had been suffering for weeks on end. The alternative was too alarming to consider.

Watson helped Holmes stand, but had to wait a few moments before he could do more than rise to his knees. In the interim, Holmes gasped in surprise, clutching his stomach, and stumbled, catching himself on the bars of the door. He remained there, gripping a bar tightly enough to make his knuckles go white and panting as he experienced something that Watson could only guess was pain.

He stood as soon as he could, and hurried to Holmes, who didn't seem to notice his approach. He set his hand on Holmes' stomach and felt how it was again rock-hard, just as before. He frowned. At length the muscles relaxed and Holmes was able to stand up straight again. He laughed shakily. "That was a strong one."

"How long has this been going on?" Watson demanded.

"You know very well I've had occasional pains for some time," Holmes retorted.

"That wasn't the same as the earlier pains and you know it. Those were never strong enough to make you stop and have to hold on to something."

"That was the first one of such magnitude," Holmes said defensively. "All earlier occurrences were fairly mild."

Watson wasn't sure whether to believe him, but could only take him at his word. All the same, he watched Holmes closely for several hours. His watchfulness was rewarded by several strong spasms like that earlier one, and he had a sinking feeling Holmes truly was in labor. Holmes seemed to draw the same conclusion, for he remained unnaturally quiet in those hours.

Watson was never quite so relieved to see Marjorie as he was that evening when she came to check on them after they had eaten their dinner. Which is to say, Watson ate his dinner and Holmes picked at his; it was almost like being back in Baker Street, if you looked no further than their eating habits. Marjorie's attention was fully on Holmes as soon as Watson told her of the strong pains that had gripped him periodically.

Once she learned of Holmes' backache, she dismissed Watson's suspicion that Holmes had begun labor several hours before. "It often starts with a backache, I told you that," she said, her voice almost sounding scolding. "He has been in labor all day, from the symptoms."

"What do we do now?"

"We wait. It is still very early yet."

Holmes did not appear to like that pronouncement any more than Watson did.

"How will we know when it's not still early?"

She glanced at him, then gazed steadily at Holmes. "You'll know. But if you must have an external measure, contractions that occur within five minutes of each other are an indication that the labor has begun to proceed. Send for me at any time if you require my assistance. In the meantime, I suggest you both rest as much as you are able."

She left without so much as a backward glance, and Holmes and Watson looked helplessly at each other for a moment. "Sometimes I think she forgets we have no idea what we're doing," Watson grumbled as he slumped onto his bed.

"Or she believes we will instinctively know what to do when the situation arises," Holmes said.

"And what do you think your instincts are telling you to do right now?" Watson asked sarcastically.

"Curl up in the corner and pretend nothing is happening," Holmes said with a bit of a grin. "However, I do not curl up nearly so well as I used to do."

Watson snorted and had nothing to say to that.

 

But Marjorie was right. The night passed by uneventfully, or mostly so; Watson would have slept reasonably well if Holmes hadn't woken him every time another contraction occurred, which was roughly every twenty to thirty minutes for the first several hours. At that point Watson gave Holmes a little something to help him sleep, and there was blissful silence until the pre-dawn hours of the morning. Then Holmes woke to the feeling that he had just wet the bed, but without having felt the urge to urinate.

"Watson!"

"What now?" Watson grumbled.

"I am wet."

"Couldn't you have grabbed the bucket?"

"I did not wet myself," Holmes replied indignantly.

Watson dragged himself out of bed and stood over Holmes' bed with his hands on his hips. "So help me, Holmes-" he began, but was interrupted by a sharp intake of breath from Holmes, who took his hand and squeezed it as if it were the only thing keeping him from falling off a precipice.

"Watson, quickly, what is the time," Holmes gasped as soon as the pain receded enough to allow speech.

Watson shook himself loose of Holmes' grasp and stepped toward the door to use the small bit of light cast by the torch outside their cell. "Three minutes to six," he said, and wondered for a moment how it was that the torch was still lit. Marjorie must have given the guards instructions to ensure they were allowed light all night.

Holmes sighed and shifted so he could sit with the wall at his back. "How long do you think this will take?" he asked quietly.

"I haven't the faintest idea. How does it feel?"

Holmes considered this, idly rubbing his stomach, then self-consciously snatching his hand away when he realized what he was doing. "It is . . . unpleasant, and somewhat painful, but I fear there is quite a way to go yet."

Not long after, Holmes stiffened, drawing a sharp intake of breath. "The time?" he demanded.

Watson flicked open his watch. "It has been . . . ten minutes," he said, then snapped the lid closed. "Not often enough to worry about, apparently."

Holmes snorted. "Easy enough to say when you aren't the one seizing up every ten minutes."

"Yes, well, it would seem this is still the easy part even for you, from what she's been saying."

"Don't remind me," Holmes said shortly, bringing his knees closer and hunching over as if curling up around the discomfort would make it less uncomfortable.

The contractions came precisely ten minutes apart for well over an hour. Marjorie came to check on them, and had the wisdom not to say anything about how she had been right. When Holmes told her about the wetness, she was pleased. "It is progressing, then. We shall have to decide when to move you to the birthing room."

Watson didn't want to move yet, but Holmes was quite ready to be elsewhere--exactly where mattered little, so long as it was not the cell and not in Blackwood's presence--so Marjorie left to light the stove and make the final preparations and promised to return for them when all was ready.

 

As it happened, a bit of walking was all that was necessary to encourage things along. The time between contractions quickly dropped from ten minutes to four. Holmes found it easier to bear if he kept moving, so he roved about the room and a part of the corridor outside while Marjorie accompanied him and Watson tried to take a nap on the couch.

Holmes grew weary of the process long before any end was in sight. He tried to remind himself that surviving this was the last step, there was only this between him and the escape Marjorie and Mycroft had been concocting.

She was only too willing to tell him about the plans, since they were an excellent distraction from the issue at hand. He mostly listened, interjecting a question only occasionally, though he admittedly didn't absorb all of the information; having to endure progressively more painful cramps in one's midsection was enough to detract even from his attention span.

Holmes had to stop walking for a while when his feet hurt with every step. Watson hadn't been able to sleep, so he moved to allow Holmes the use of the couch. Marjorie helped Holmes change from his still-damp clothing into a nightshirt before allowing him to sit down.

Once dressed, Holmes settled in at one end, waving Watson to sit down at the other, and sighed, leaning his head back against the upholstery and closing his eyes. Marjorie sat on the floor and took his feet in her lap to massage them. Holmes hummed in appreciation, then realized he was stroking his stomach again and took his hand away, fisting it in frustration.

"If it helps, you should not be embarrassed," Marjorie reproached him gently, reaching up to take his hand and place it again on his swollen abdomen.

"But there is no reason why it should help," Holmes said in agitation. "Surface stimulation cannot possibly affect the contraction underneath."

"Do not underestimate the power of a gentle touch," Marjorie replied. "Just because it does not directly affect the contractions doesn't mean it is not soothing."

Holmes grumbled to himself, but his hand remained on his stomach--it was stationary, but it was there.

"The effect can be enhanced if the touch is from another," Marjorie continued, glancing at Watson thoughtfully.

"That's not necessary," Holmes said quickly. "Tell me about Blackwood's mother."

"You are changing the subject," Marjorie said mildly. "There is much I could tell, but I expect you wish to hear about her death."

Holmes nodded slightly.

Watson was fascinated by the abrupt shift in topic and wondered what prompted the question. What did Blackwood's mother have to do with anything?

"Elizabeth was devoted to the Order and believed wholeheartedly in the rituals. She was obsessed with becoming powerful in the ways of the Order even though she was prone to poor health. She was . . . quite good, the best of her generation, better even than me. Despite her physical weakness, she insisted upon participating in the ritual that led to Henry's conception. She was quite pleased that Sir Thomas chose her as his partner--he was not yet head of the Order at the time, but was understood to be the immediate successor.

"When her pregnancy was discovered, she gloried in it even though it meant she had to withdraw from society--she was unmarried--and rely upon the support of Sir Thomas. The pregnancy was difficult and she was often quite unwell. She had to be confined to bed in her sixth month and she went into labor several weeks before she should have. The labor was long and she became deathly ill after the delivery. She died two days later."

A solemn silence reigned upon the conclusion of her narrative. "Sir Thomas said she was a powerful practitioner, but 'not enough to survive giving birth to him'," Holmes mused.

"Did he?" Marjorie said with some surprise, leaning back on her hands, Holmes' feet still in her lap. "He would not speak of her for many years, but yes, that is the truth. I believe you will fare better; you are physically stronger than she ever was."

"Yes, of course," Holmes mumbled, and Watson wondered if that had truly been a concern for Holmes, since he evidently knew the fate of Blackwood's mother from the beginning.

"But there is more," Holmes said when Marjorie said nothing else. "She was your daughter."

Marjorie flushed and looked away. "She was."

Watson gaped at her, then glanced at Holmes, unsure what had led him to that conclusion. Then he remembered a conversation from several weeks ago. "Blackwood is your grandson, yet you expect us to believe you are willing to kill him on our behalf?"

"Not on your behalf," she said immediately. "On behalf of those he has wronged. He is misusing the powers given him for his own gain. Since no others of the Order have seen fit to reprimand him, I shall."

Even as she spoke, Holmes was struggling to extricate himself from the couch. "I need to walk."

 

By mid-afternoon, matters had progressed to the point that the contractions arrived with such frequency and severity that Holmes could no longer simply walk through them. Marjorie guided him into a number of positions, often using Watson as a support, to find what was most comfortable; for the moment, Holmes preferred lying half-curled on his side on the couch while Marjorie rubbed his back.

Watson felt extraordinarily useless, with nothing he could do except watch Holmes practically writhe in agony as his insides convulsed. He felt chills when Holmes began groaning, a low but unmistakable sound of pain that Watson had never heard from Holmes before. Holmes did not ordinarily give voice to his pain.

"John, a basin, quickly," Marjorie called, and at last he had something to do. Holmes had a difficult time of it and Watson spent a while fetching water and cloths for Marjorie and cleaning the basin after Holmes retched. At length Marjorie decided to give Holmes a small dose of morphine to blunt the pain, so Watson prepared it and patted Holmes' shoulder while she administered it.

Holmes' groaning mostly ceased when the morphine took hold, but he still panted for breath and clutched at the couch cushions with a white-knuckled grip. Marjorie reassured him with gentle touches and murmured encouragement, though Watson could tell she was also carefully checking his pulse and the rate of the contractions.

"Something has changed," Holmes said breathlessly some time later, his voice hoarse from lack of use. "It feels different."

"When the next contraction comes, you need to push with it," Marjorie instructed.

He tried, but it didn't seem to work. Marjorie told him not to worry, for he'd have plenty of chances to get it right.

But at least a dozen contractions came and went and Holmes grew frustrated. Marjorie recommended changing positions; still nothing seemed to help, despite a handful of positions and at least twice as many contractions. Well over an hour had passed since Holmes started his attempts to push when she had Holmes try squatting.

It seemed to work, or at least Holmes thought he felt something move, but then came the problem of maintaining the position for an unknown amount of time. In the end, Watson sat on the edge of a chair with Holmes squatting between his spread feet and holding himself up with his arms on Watson's legs.

Marjorie retrieved towels from the rack beside the stove and spread some beneath and in front of Holmes, then knelt before him and awaited the emergence of the child's head.

Watson thought it seemed to take forever for anything to happen, so he could only wonder what Holmes thought. He had to lean forward and slide his arms around Holmes' chest to help support him as Holmes grew weary.

At long last the babe emerged, covered in fluids and distressingly still. Holmes slumped in Watson's hold and he carefully helped Holmes sit down and lean against his legs, all the while watching Marjorie as she tended the child, rubbing it briskly with a towel.

"It's a girl," Marjorie said as the infant uttered her first mewling cries.

"That will displease him," Holmes murmured without opening his eyes. He sounded pleased and exhausted.

"What happens now?" Watson asked as Marjorie rose and returned with thread and scissors. The cord was tied off and cut, and Marjorie wrapped the girl snugly in towels.

"We have engaged a wet nurse," she said. "I am to present the child to Henry, then surrender her to the nurse for feeding. I will be on hand for the rest of her care."

Holmes grunted. "It seems I am not finished yet," he said, clutching Watson's trouser leg.

"That would be the afterbirth. It should not be as painful."

It wasn't, and it passed fairly quickly compared to everything else. Holmes trembled mightily when it was over, and could do little more than huddle beneath a blanket on the couch while Marjorie--assisted by Watson--cleaned up and sent several guards on errands to prepare a bath and notify Lord Blackwood.

Almost two hours later--roughly sixteen hours after leaving--Holmes and Watson were back in their cell as if nothing had happened.


	10. Chapter 10

Watson woke long before Holmes did, which he hoped meant that the morphine had eased Holmes into a restful slumber and the exhaustion kept him there. Holmes seemed to be sleeping peacefully, though there was a flush in his cheeks that would have been worrying if he felt warm to the touch, but his temperature seemed normal. Watson let him sleep, even when breakfast--such as it was--arrived; he ate slowly, thinking.

Holmes didn't rouse until midmorning. Watson had been watching him closely for well over an hour, so he saw Holmes' eyes twitch and heard the sharp intake of breath that indicated Holmes either remembered all that had occurred or abruptly felt the pain of his ordeal, or both. He let the breath out slowly, and his eyelids twitched.

"Good morning," Watson said, and Holmes opened his eyes. "How do you feel?"

"Hm. I am uncertain about the best comparison; it feels something like I was thoroughly beaten in the boxing ring, then run over by a herd of stampeding horses." He quirked a bit of a smile. "Is that sufficient information?"

Watson grinned. "It will do, but I'm afraid I don't have anything to give you. Unless you have a headache, in which case we do have a powder for that."

"Quite all right. I expect Marjorie will bring something when she comes," Holmes said, trying to push himself up on his elbow. He stopped partway up, grimacing.

Watson anticipated his need and helped him shift so he could relieve himself. Holmes did not wish to eat, but Watson persuaded him to try in the interest of a faster recovery.

Marjorie arrived, bearing a syringe of morphine and news that there would be a ceremony on the eighth day after the birth to present the child to the members of the Order. "It will take place at the temple, and your presence will be required," she told Holmes. "I am certain we can concoct a reason for John to accompany you."

"At which time we can make our escape," Holmes said thoughtfully. "After this ceremony, not before. If a sufficient distraction can be provided, our odds would be good."

"I have sent a message to your brother. We have a week; I am certain he can set his plans into motion in that time."

One week. It seemed such a short time in comparison to how long he had been there already, but Watson feared it was quite long enough to allow for problems and possibly even the discovery of their intent.

 

Watson's misgivings were confirmed before the end of the day: Holmes developed a fever that rose steadily during the evening hours. He seemed to have no other symptoms, but it was presently impossible to tell whether the muscle aches Holmes was experiencing were due solely to having given birth or were worsened by this illness, and his utter exhaustion could similarly be from one or both causes.

Holmes' fever remained quite high for five days, though he never passed into the realm of delirium. Even when the fever began to abate, he remained tired and weak, and Watson had grave doubts about attempting an escape with Holmes in that condition.

Marjorie assured him that Holmes' frailty was being taken into account. Watson was not appeased, but could do nothing to prevent Holmes from being forced to attend the ceremonial farce. It was a small consolation that Holmes' illness had made his own presence there a necessity.

The ceremony was to be in the evening of the eighth day. On the appointed afternoon, Holmes and Watson were taken to bathe, then dress in clothing provided for this use. Watson's clothing was nothing more than a decent suit, though a little short in the arms and legs. Holmes was provided shirt, trousers, and waistcoat, plus the robe he hated.

As they bathed and dressed, Marjorie briefly outlined what they could expect during the ceremony and afterward. Watson still had his doubts, but it was too late to turn back now.

They were blindfolded and their wrists were bound behind their backs, and they were lead on a dizzying path that eventually led outdoors, the smell of horse dung pungent after having spent so long without smelling it. They were shoved into a carriage and pushed into the seats, one guard for each of them.

After some span of time the carriage stopped and they were propelled out, then led up several flights of stairs. The blindfolds were removed only when they arrived in a large chamber headed by an imposing chair and with two rows of chairs facing each other down the middle of the room. Blackwood was there, wearing an ornately decorated robe, and Marjorie was in attendance with the sleeping infant; the others were not yet permitted to enter

"Gentlemen," Blackwood said with that slimy smile of his. "It is good to see you, and on such an auspicious occasion. Though I desired a son, Mother has persuaded me that this outcome is not the end of my plans. You are fortunate, Holmes; I might have ordered your death without her intervention."

Watson protectively moved a step closer to Holmes, who looked especially pale and ill in the brightly lit room. Neither of them dared to respond to Blackwood's statement. Antagonizing him would only ruin their chances for escape.

They were led to stand to the right of the large, garish chair that Blackwood called his throne with their guards behind them; now, at last, the handcuffs were removed. Holmes stumbled as he was released and Watson steadied him, then slipped an arm around his back beneath his robe to support him. It was apparent they were expected to stand for however long this might last.

When they were in place and Marjorie had stepped out of sight, the members of the Order were allowed to filter in and take their chairs.

Watson paid little heed to Blackwood's words and did not attend to what was going on around him after Marjorie entered with the child to murmurs of approval from the congregated men; his attention was focused solely on Holmes and how his strength was failing quickly, judging by the ever-increasing amount of weight against his side and arm. He took hold of Holmes' trousers and belt to ensure he had a sufficient grip.

Holmes straightened for a moment, and Watson became aware that all eyes in the room were on them; evidently Blackwood was speaking of the parentage of the child. Mercifully that did not last long, and Blackwood droned on, now holding the sleeping child in his arms. Watson wondered if he'd missed the announcement of the name--he was curious what sort of name Blackwood would choose--but his thoughts were quickly diverted when Holmes' knees buckled and he collapsed against Watson, appearing to pass out.

Watson eased him to the ground and distantly noted the sound of gasps and exclamations; Marjorie rushed to their aid and gently slapped Holmes' cheeks in an attempt to rouse him. "His fever has returned," she said, loud enough for the guard to hear. "This has been too much for him."

Blackwood swept over to their huddle. "He is causing a disturbance. Take him away from here," he snapped without actually looking down at Holmes.

"He needs to be in a proper bed, tended by doctors with sufficient supplies," Marjorie replied.

"Take him to hospital, then. I care not. Just remove him."

"Of course." Marjorie gestured for one of the guards to lift Holmes. Holmes' eyes flicked open just long enough to meet Watson's gaze before he was scooped up and carried from the room. Watson quickly rose and followed, expecting an objection to his departure that never came.

Only the one guard accompanied them to the hospital, since Holmes had been laid out on one of the bench seats. So far all was according to plan, save the timing. Holmes' strength had failed him sooner than they had anticipated, but that should not be a fatal flaw.

The guard carried Holmes into the building, where they were quickly greeted by a doctor that looked vaguely familiar, though Watson couldn't figure out why; he was sure he'd never met the man before. They were led into a room at the far end of a hall, and Holmes was laid on the bed farthest from the door. The doctor set up the screen between beds even though the other bed was empty and haughtily dismissed the guard to the corridor, who was not happy about leaving his charges unsupervised but obeyed when he understood there was nowhere they could go except through the door into the hall.

Once the guard was out of earshot, the doctor crossed his arms and said reprovingly, "You're early. You look terrible."

"The second led to the first, I'm afraid," Holmes said easily, folding his hands over his chest and gazing up at the doctor. "How long must we wait?"

"Twenty minutes, which should allow you sufficient time to recover yourself. I do not think Watson wants to carry you anywhere."

"His leg wouldn't allow it in any case," Holmes said, and Watson found himself at the receiving end of two frighteningly similar stares.

Looking from one to the other, he said weakly, "You don't mean to tell me--"

"Oh, yes, I knew I'd forgotten something. Watson, meet brother Mycroft," Holmes said, waving his hand lazily in the direction of his brother.

Mycroft merely nodded in acknowledgement. "When your guard abandons his post, you will be free to leave out the side door just beyond this room. A wagon will be waiting for you; hide yourselves and it will conduct you to the station. Your train leaves at ten."

"Won't staying at your estate be too obvious?" Watson finally voiced a doubt that had been niggling at him ever since he learned of the plan.

"You will remain for less than twenty-four hours. There is no danger of you being caught there."

"If you say so," Watson said reluctantly.

"He does," Holmes said before Mycroft could speak. "Do you have what I requested?"

"Yes, of course," Mycroft said with a sigh, pulling a syringe case from the pocket of his doctor's coat. He handed it to Watson. "To be given at your discretion, though I would recommend a dose of stimulant before you attempt to leave this room. Sherlock really does not look well."

"You wouldn't in my place, either," Holmes retorted testily while Watson opened the case to find a syringe and two bottles, one of morphine and one of cocaine.

Mycroft left with a promise to see them again soon. "How long has it been since he said we had twenty minutes?" Watson asked.

"About fifteen minutes, I think," Holmes replied.

Watson hesitated for only a moment before measuring out a dose of cocaine.

They waited in silence for several minutes, then the sounds of shouting and running footsteps began to echo down the corridor. Watson quietly crept nearer to the door, listening carefully. The shouts resolved into cries, and someone called for the guard to help, there was a riot outside. The guard resisted the call at first, but when it was repeated, he lumbered away.

Holmes joined Watson near the door and they waited long enough for the guard to retreat down the corridor and turn the corner before slipping out and hurrying in the other direction. Everything proceeded as it was supposed to from that point forward, but Watson resisted the urge to relax until they were in a brougham bound for Mycroft's estate. Holmes was slumped against him; the cocaine had long since worn off and he was exhausted.

They were free. Perhaps they would not be truly free until they left the country in the morning, but this was close enough; with some distance between them and London, they had room to move and hide should Blackwood prove cleverer than expected. Holmes was quite gifted at going to ground and becoming invisible for periods of time, and while he would have preferred to immediately begin working against Blackwood's regime again, he had come to realize--with quite a bit of cajoling--he needed to recuperate in order to be most useful.

Holmes was asleep when they arrived. Rather than wake him, Watson picked him up and carried him inside; he was lighter than Watson expected. Holmes roused somewhat as Watson maneuvered him through the door of a bedroom. "Careful, you'll make Mary jealous," Holmes slurred.

Mary. Watson had not dared to think about her for so long . . . his heart ached as he realized just how long it had been since he'd seen her. Once he had put Holmes on his bed, he retired to the next bedroom over and stared at the ceiling, contemplating Mary and how much life had changed.

 

Six weeks in a small French town outside Rouen did much to restore Holmes to health. He was beginning to talk of returning to England when a message arrived from Mycroft: a terse telegram, relating Blackwood's death and Mycroft's intent to retrieve them at his earliest convenience.

Mycroft arrived four days later. Watson could tell that Holmes read much in his brother's expression and deportment, but he was in the dark until Mycroft produced a recent newspaper. Lord Henry Blackwood had died at a woman's hand--strangled--and the woman was fatally shot by Lord Coward, who came to Blackwood's office before the woman could leave. In the investigation of the murderess, it was discovered that Blackwood's infant daughter had been smothered in her crib, presumably by the same woman.

Marjorie had done as she said she might.

Widespread riots followed Blackwood's death, the repressed and frustrated population embracing the opportunity to voice their objections to the current government. Members of the Order that had a role in the government were forced to flee for their lives and the remaining members of Parliament immediately began work to set things right.

They could return to England, return to the way things used to be or close to it.

Watson felt something like shock; he had not expected Marjorie to go to such extremes and wondered what had driven her to such desperate measures.

Holmes reacted to the news by withdrawing into himself, spending a great deal of time alone in thought and smoking heavily. He was quiet and subdued even as they began the return journey to London, and refused to discuss anything that happened to him in the previous year.

Watson did not push him and hoped returning home and resuming his old life would be sufficient to pull Holmes from his melancholy. But weeks passed, and Holmes still did not seem quite himself.

Then Holmes had a new quarry with which to engage: Moriarty. As life returned to its old ways, so too did Professor Moriarty, and Holmes embarked on an effort to bring him and his organization to an end.

Holmes' nearly manic focus on Moriarty concerned Watson, but it was better than the dark mood that had enveloped him before. And somehow Watson had the feeling that, no matter how it may end up, this was the way things were supposed to be.


End file.
